Колин Глисон: Bleeding Dusk

Victoria felt that it would be in poor taste to mention that one could easily achieve immortality by having a vampire turn one undead. Of course, there was the disadvantage of being damned for all eternity and being relegated to drinking human blood if one was turned. Instead, she said, “Perhaps we could go tonight and see if anything has changed. As well, I’m not familiar with that part of the city and would like to see it with someone who knows it well.”

“That would be a pleasure,” Michalas said with a genuine smile. “I would enjoy hunting with you.”

They were interrupted from their conversation, which had taken place in one of the alcoves adjoining the fountain chamber, by a handsome man with red-gold hair. His arms were heavily muscled, a feature that Zavier tended to display by wearing unfashionable shirts with the sleeves cut off, much as he might have on the farm his father and brothers worked back in Scotland. It made him look slightly barbaric, and Victoria felt mildly embarrassed at all of his exposed skin.

“Come, ye gabblers—Wayren is gathering us in the Gallery. Victoria, ’tis good to see your bonny face again. Ilias, Michalas, come along with ye.”

“Zavier.” She turned toward him, smiling. “I knew you wouldn’t miss our celebration today! I can only imagine how delighted you’ll be to see Aunt Eustacia’s new portrait unveiled in the Gallery.”

Though his brawny physique bespoke great strength, his blue eyes were kind and his smile warm, particularly when he was in Victoria’s presence—a fact that had not been lost on her. He’d left Rome just after Aunt Eustacia died to investigate rumors of vampire activity in Aberdeen. Wayren, with the use of the well-trained pigeons that clustered around Santo Quirinus, had learned that Zavier was on his way back to Rome, but she hadn’t been certain he’d be there in time for the portrait unveiling, a bittersweet tradition that honored each Venator after his or her death. But she should have known Zavier wouldn’t have missed the honor to the oldest Venator.

Somehow, as he ushered her out of the alcove, he managed to place himself between her and Michalas and Ilias, drawing her back to walk behind them. “And you ken that I have been attemptin’ to wheedle out of Wayren whether the painting of Eustacia is one of her in her younger years or as we ken her.”

Victoria slipped her hand into the tiny crook of his arm, aware of the unusual fact that her fingers were touching a man’s bare skin. He’d been the first of the Venators to befriend her when Aunt Eustacia brought her to the Consilium for the first time. Not that the rest of them had been standoffish or looked down on her for being a woman—only Max had done that, and only until he’d seen her at her most vulnerable moment—for they were all well aware of the power and skill her aunt had wielded, and thus they held no prejudice against the female gender.

“She hasn’t told me either,” she replied, glancing at him.

“Well, soon enough. Tell me, when will ye be having your vis bulla replaced, and be able to go out on the hunt?”

“I have already done so, Zavier. Whilst you were gone back to Scotland.”

“Och! And I meant to be there for it,” he said, a gleam of humor in his cornflower eyes. “I would have offered to hold your hand.”

Victoria couldn’t stay the blush—and, truly, it was mortifying for her, a Venator, to blush over something like this!—and she looked away.

Despite the fact that every Venator wore his vis bulla somewhere on his body, pierced through the skin so that it became one with the being of the person, Victoria had not relished the thought of being surrounded by a group of men whilst her belly was bared and her navel poked. And along with that resolution, she’d also made it a point not to consider where Zavier—or any other Venator—wore his. She felt it was a private thing.

“Well, you were not, and Kritanu and Wayren were the only ones there. Just as I preferred.”

Zavier chuckled. “Ye canna blame a man for tryin’ his best.”

Victoria changed the subject as they wandered past the fountain and through the alcove that led to the Gallery where portraits of all of the Venators through the years were hung. “Did you dispatch the vampires in Aberdeen?”

“Indeed I did. Five of the demmed leeches were living beneath the construction of the new Music Hall, coming out at night to feed on the locals. I never heard of any undead that far north before; I thought Scotland was too cold and rough for them.”

Victoria smiled. “I’m certain it was pleasant to have a reason to visit home, after living here for several years. I’ve been in Italy for only six months, but already I do miss London. Have you had any more thought on the paintings? Perhaps the months away from them have given you a different theory.”

“No matter how I look at it, and study the portraits in the Gallery, I can only come to the conclusion that they have all been painted by the same artist.”

“Even though some of the paintings of the Venators are centuries old?” Victoria let the humor into her voice. “It must be a family of painters, perhaps a father-to-son-to-grandson sort of talent…not so unlike that of the Venators.”

“Ye are most likely correct, but I still canna get beyond the fact that they are so similar. And Wayren persists in being mysterious about it all. Ah, well, ’tis nothing more than a legitimate opportunity for me to study our artifacts.”

“Which is no hardship for you.”

“Indeed not.” He looked at her, his eyes suddenly warm enough to cause her face to heat. “Perhaps now that I am back we can hunt together some night. Carnivale begins in three days, and we will all need to be watchful during the festivities.”

“So I hear,” she replied. “I am looking forward to experiencing the great Roman Carnivale.”

“Since I have been here these last five years, I have learned to greatly enjoy it. Most especially the roasted chestnuts and brunetti , which they sell on every street corner.”

With that, they entered the long, narrow portrait gallery, which was lined on each side with the pictures of every Venator from Gardeleus on. Most of them were men, but there were a few women in the ranks. Zavier, who was particularly interested in the female slayers, had told her that each of the women Venators were direct descendants of Gardeleus—as Victoria herself was, and her aunt before her, and unlike himself and Michalas, who were from other branches of the family. One of her favorite portraits depicted Catherine Gardella, whose laughing green eyes and brilliant red hair gave her a mischievous look that made Victoria wish she’d known her.

Other Venators, like Zavier, were also from the Gardella family tree, but had sprung randomly from far-flung branches that often went for three or more generations without producing a potential Venator.

Ilias gathered their attention with three sharp claps of his large-knuckled hands. “Since I believe that Zavier is about to expire on the spot with curiosity, it is time to unveil and honor our beloved Eustacia Gardella, mistress of the Venators, gracious lady of the Gardellas.”

With a quick flick of his wrist, he whipped the lush white covering from the large portrait, revealing a life-size painting.

Victoria felt the sting of tears in her eyes as she looked on the beautiful, wise face of the woman who had mentored her through her first year as a Venator. The artist, who in keeping with his mystery did not sign a name to any of the portraits, had captured the liveliness in her eyes, the gentle crinkles at their corners, and the gleam of her black hair. Aunt Eustacia’s white forehead showed nary a wrinkle, despite the fact that the painting depicted her just as she had been before she died—eighty-one years old, and still beautiful and strong.